


The Lost Language

by allonsysilvertongue



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: 1st person pov, F/M, Hayffie, Valentine's Day, trinkernathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 12:49:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsysilvertongue/pseuds/allonsysilvertongue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There was a language there that not many realized existed; meanings hidden behind pretty, colourful petals. That tended to be the case with most things that are aesthetically pleasing. Nobody bothered to look deeper."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lost Language

**Author's Note:**

> A hayffie valentine's one shot of angst and fluff, with a twist.

**The Lost Language**

It was a long time ago but Effie once lamented to me the importance of Valentine’s Day, which happened to fall on the day I had the unfortunate luck to be at the Capitol for a meeting involving mentors and escorts.

 

I had witnessed, in what I suspect was supposed to be some gallant, romantic act as a man got down on his knee in the crowded restaurant that Effie and I was in, and proposed to his lady. It would be important for me to emphasize at this point of the story that I was not out with Effie on a date. No, my basic human need was acting up after four hours of meeting and I needed to have food and alcohol, hence the dinner.

Now, back to the event in the restaurant, the moment the proposal took place, Effie had squealed as had most of the ladies in that premises. A cheer erupted when the lady gave an affirmative answer and a standing ovation all around from nearly everyone in the room. I, of course, remained seated, snorting at this unnecessary attempt at public attention. If it was me doing the proposing, it would have been somewhere quiet, somewhere private with only me and … well, whoever it was I would be proposing to. My eyes flickered to Effie, still grinning and clapping her hands.

 _No, not her_ , I scowled.

Was this Valentine’s Day, then? A day when people in the Capitol decided it would be a reasonable time to get engaged?

I supposed I should have clarified that fact with Effie but I never could strike up the appropriate amount of interest to do so. But, Valentine’s Day which involved a lot of Effie sighing and lamenting and telling me that it would be different next year. For her, at least.

I shrugged and shrugged and shrugged some more but she didn’t seem to understand that I was really not interested in her love life, or lack thereof.

I never gave it much thought until after the Rebellion and the reason Valentine’s Day crossed my mind was something I could not explain even if I wanted to. If I were to be perfectly honest with myself, I was thinking about her. I thought about her a lot now that there was nothing much to occupy my time.

XxX

I supposed what I really wanted was to talk to her but as was common knowledge I wasn’t very good at it. I eyed the broken plaster wall where a phone used to be. A letter wouldn’t do either. My hands shook too much for me to hold a pen steady.

There had to be a way for me to get some message across to that woman. I was looking for a simpler way, a way that did not involve me stringing words into a sentence. Being eloquent wasn’t part of my listed strength and the list was already limited as it were.   

Outside, in the glaring sun, Peeta squatted on his knees, planting seeds around Katniss’ house.  _Primroses_. That was what Peeta had told me he would be planting for her.

 _Flowers_.

My thoughts came to a screeching halt, ideas blooming and blossoming in the summer heat. Yes, all puns intended.

There was a language there that not many realized existed; meanings hidden behind pretty, colourful petals. That tended to be the case with most things that are aesthetically pleasing. Nobody bothered to look deeper.

As was the case with Effie, now that I thought about it. Shrouded in her pretty clothes, she never wanted anyone to delve too deep into her core, to find out who she really was.

Effie would appreciate the finer details and I was thrilled with the new found subtlety in which I could convey my thoughts without speaking or writing.

It would also be interesting to note that I, Haymitch Abernathy, do not generally send flowers. But, for this woman, for Effie Trinket, I was prepared to make an exception.

XxX

I ordered a delivery of flowers for her every year, for five years, on February 14. That date held no significance to me. It was just another day in which the sun rose and set but it seemed to be an exceedingly important day to her, if memory served me right. I didn’t give it much thought as I indicated ‘February 14’ to be the delivery date on the slip of paper at the florist shop. The only singular fact that mattered was that what I was doing, trying to reconnect with her was in some unexplainable ways, important to me.

Maybe it was the guilt. Guilt could drive people to do weird acts. I did after all, left her in that Penthouse while I fled to District Thirteen and I was trying to look for ways to make it up to her.

I thought about what I wanted to say and it came down to one message over and over again. I wanted to her to know that I had not forgotten about her.

The first year after the Rebellion, I sent her a stalk of red begonias – deep thoughts. The accompanying card held precisely eight characters; two words, two alphabets.

_“To E,_

_From H._ ”

There was no reply. I wasn’t excepting one anyway.

XxX

I heard from Plutarch that Effie was not doing very well. She was cloaked with, what I had long regarded as normal by now, nightmares and flashbacks.

Therefore on the second year, I sent her a stalk of purple hydrangeas. I bought a book, a year ago concerning the language of flowers and according to it, hydrangea mean perseverance.

I knew Effie. I was well acquainted with her determination and I had the utmost faith that she would get through this.

The card was the same – eight characters.

There was no reply. But in her apartment, Effie sniffed the flowers and arranged them carefully in a vase next to her bed. The thank you card was propped on the glass vase, never meant to be sent out because she was still angry with me.

XxX

I saw her at the celebratory ball to mark the victory of the Rebellion and the fall of President Snow the year after. Effie glided across the hall (she wasn’t gliding but she was elegant, in my opinion) in her cream coloured dress, silky hair hanging loosely around her shoulders and her blue eyes darting warily around the room. She was still haunted. I could see that from where I stood, partially hidden in the shadows. There was something fragile about her and yet, there was a strength that resonates within her. It was confusing and beautiful and thrilling all at once.

I made a conscious effort not to cross path with her. Not yet. Not this soon. I didn’t approach her nor talk to her. But I watched her, all night, until she left for home.

That year, I sent her a bouquet of orchids.

_Delicate beauty._

XxX

I was told that Effie was at District Seven with Johanna Mason. She had moved out of the Capitol. I made a face, according to Peeta, as I tried to envision the odd friendship between Effie and Johanna.

She was trying hard to get better. And leaving the Capitol behind her was a mark of that. It took a lot of courage to leave something familiar and to leave  _her_  home, a place where she grew up, said a lot about her.

On the fourth year, I called the florist and diverted the delivery from the Capitol to District Seven. I gave five stems of pink gladiolus.

_Strength of character._

Effie was strong in spirit. I knew that but I needed her to know it, too.

XxX

Five years after the Rebellion, I finally delved into the crux of the matter; the reason why I started this flower giving ritual in the first place.

A bouquet of white tulips arrived on Johanna Mason’s front door. The card remained the same.

“It’s from Haymitch, Effie!” Johanna shouted.

I found out, later on, that Effie carried it into her room and she wept that night. I didn’t know why. I never wanted to make her cry. Maybe she was allergic to tulips, maybe those flowers were ugly.

_White tulips: forgiveness._

Her forgiveness was what I was seeking.

I was sorry. Truly.

XxX

The birds flew overhead, the crickets chirped and the moon had started to peek from behind those clouds. I returned home one afternoon with an arm full of liquor to find a vase of pale purple peony on my front porch. Imagine my surprise. It must have been sitting there for hours

_“To H,_

_From E.”_

My lips curled in pleasure. Never had anything as simple as four words brought a smile to my face. There was always a first and that was the first time she made me smile after the war ended and she did so even without knowing.

Finally, after five years, I received a reply from her.

Inside, with the dim yellow light in my kitchen, I flipped through my book. With some difficulties, I located the flower, my eyes flickering back and forth from the flowers on the table to the picture in the book. I had to make sure it was the right flowers. I searched for its meaning.

Peony denoted healing.

I understood what she was trying to say. She was doing well and she was getting better.

_Good job, sweetheart._

A gust of wind blew through the open window and swept the card to the floor. As I bend to retrieve it, I saw the extra message written in her neat, meticulous penmanship at the back of it.

One simple question but it made my body thrummed with nervous energy all the same because I wasn’t sure if we were ready.

“May I visit?”

XxX

Even the language of flowers failed me in the end. There was nothing in them that could convey how I felt when I saw her walking up the pathway towards my house.

I scrambled to think of a flower; their names and their meanings that I read in my book flashed through my mind in a disjointed fragment. My urgency rose when she looked at me and cleared her throat, her hand reaching for her purse.

“I better … I should go back to Seven. Johanna would worry.”

Which one says that I need her to stay?

None.

Which one even says that I value her friendship and that she, unlike everyone else, had stood steadfast by my side even when I was a drunken fool of a colleague?

I couldn’t find any that would appropriately convey my thoughts but I was determined. I did the best I could with what I had.

“Wait,” I stayed her hand. “Wait.”

My hand shook as I clumsily drew on paper a dozen pink roses.

 _Grace and appreciation and gratitude,_ I thought to myself.

_Twelve because it says sweetheart._

“The flower shop is closed,” I told her quietly, handing the scrap of paper with my terrible drawing over to her. “But… but if you stay… I’ll have them send it to you in the morning.”

It was a poor attempt but it worked because she smiled up at me, shrugged out of her coat and trudged up to the spare bedroom.

Effie kept that scrap of paper with my drawing to this very day.

XxX

It was ten years later, when I woke up one morning to find a dozen pink roses in a vase in the middle of the kitchen table. My eyes flickered to the two children, munching on their pancakes and giggling when they saw the look of confusion on my face.

I plucked the card taped to the vase.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Mummy,” it says in my daughter’s childish handwriting.

Her brother grinned at me. “We bought it using our savings. These are the same flowers like the one in your story?” he asked worriedly.

“Yes.”

“We want to tell her that we love her and thank you for looking after us,” the girl explained. “And for looking after you, too. Mummy says she have three children sometimes. She means you.”

It was ridiculous that this all started with flowers. I acknowledge that fact. But the truth remained all the same.

**Author's Note:**

> I dont also usually write in first person pov but well, this is that rare moment.


End file.
